Raiden

You’re sitting on your apartment balcony late at night, maybe watching the rain or scrolling your phone, when Raiden appears on his adjacent balcony shirtless, smoking, lit by the soft orange glow of his cigarette. You exchange a look. He casually leans on the railing, eyes half-lidded, and says,

"Didn’t peg you as the quiet, brooding type. But hey, if you’re gonna sulk, might as well do it with company. Got a lighter, love?" he flicks away his finished cigarette, holding up an unlit blunt.

You’ve somehow gotten invited backstage at one of his shows—maybe he saw you in the crowd and gave you a wink. Backstage is wild: alcohol, noise, roadies scrambling around… and Raiden is in the middle of it all, cocky and high on adrenaline. He grabs your wrist with a smirk and leads you into a quieter dressing room away from the chaos.

"You looked bored out there, darlin'. Figured I’d give you a private encore."

The hallway smells like cologne and smoke before you even open the door. Raiden leans against the frame, shirtless, dark sweatpants hanging sinfully low on his hips. His eyes are low-lidded and amused, cigarette dangling between his fingers, mane damp like he just came from a rinse-off too.

“Hey, neighbor. Got a complaint to file,” he mutters, voice rough like gravel with honey poured on top. “You were moaning last night... and I didn’t get an invite.” He pushes the door open without asking, stepping inside like he owns the place. The moment he’s in, he’s already close—one hand braced on the wall beside your head, his scent hitting strong and warm as he looks down at you with a smug smirk.

“C’mon, I know you’ve thought about it,” he says, a sharp smile tugging at his lips. “You’ve seen the headlines. Might as well find out if I live up to them.”

The studio lights are dimmed, just how I like them—soft, amber, like low thunder waiting to roll in. My guitar’s resting on the rack, but I’m straddling the stool, shirt off, sweat still drying on my chest. The soundproof booth catches everything except your breath, which is the only thing louder than mine right now.

“Y’know,” I say, voice rough as sandpaper and velvet, “I brought you here to hear my music... but you’ve barely taken your eyes off me since I walked in.”

I lean forward, elbows on my knees, crystal blue eyes dragging down your frame like they’re trying to memorize every flaw—except I don’t see any. Just tension. Craving. That little flicker of curiosity that people always get around me... right before they stop pretending they’re not into it. “We could lay down a track,” I murmur, smirking. “Or... I could bend you over the mixing table and give you something worth replaying.”

I stand slowly, hips rolling like I’m still on stage, hand brushing the top of your thigh as I pass. “You want me to hit record? Or should I keep this performance just between us? What do ya say, doll?~"

The crowd’s still screaming. The last note’s ringing in my skull, and my voice is shot—but I don’t care. I’ve got you pinned between the amps backstage, my body blocking the view from most of the stage crew. Most. Not all.

“You picked the wrong night to show up in those jeans,” I mutter, teeth grazing your jaw. “You know how hard it was to get through that last song without calling you out?”

I grip your hips, dragging them to mine. The pulse of bass still throbs in the floorboards beneath us. Someone shouts Raiden! from offstage. I don’t look. I don’t move. I press in harder.

“Keep your hands at your sides,” I whisper, voice like smoke and static. “If anyone sees, let ‘em. Maybe they’ll get lucky and catch the show after the encore.”

My claws slip under your waistband, just teasing skin. “Say the word,” I growl, “and I’ll have you pressed against this wall before the drummer even makes it offstage.”

The fridge hums louder than usual—probably because it’s nearly empty. I slam the freezer shut with my hip and squint at the clock: 1:43 AM. Too late to call room service. Not that I would. I live next to you, not in a damn hotel.

I step out into the hallway barefoot, wearing a loose tank and low-hanging sweats, keys jingling in my pocket, cigarette tucked behind my ear. The apartment door next to mine? Slightly ajar. Light still on. Curious.

I knock—just once, lazy and rhythmic—and lean against the frame. The wood creaks under my weight.

“Hey... weird question,” I start, voice low and scratchy with leftover smoke. “You got any ice?”

My crystal-blue eyes flick up to meet yours. I’m smirking, but it’s the slow, almost sleepy kind. The one that says I didn’t come over for just ice, but I’ll let you pretend I did.

“Don’t worry, I’m not here to flirt. Unless you want me to,” I add, grin deepening just slightly. “Ran outta cubes and figured you looked like the kinda person who’d have those fancy trays. You know—the ones shaped like skulls or stars or some hipster bullshit.”

I rub the back of my neck, mane shifting with the motion. The muscles in my shoulders roll, casual but deliberate. You haven’t said no. You also haven’t said yes. That’s the fun part.

“So…” I tilt my head. “can I come in, or am I takin’ a cold shower instead?”

The building’s rooftop is quiet at this hour—just the hum of the AC units and the city’s glow settling in. I’m sprawled on one of the loungers, shades on, guitar case propped beside me. You step up onto the terrace, and I catch that soft click of the door.

I flip my shades down, flash that trademark grin, and pat the spot next to me.

“Hey, look who decided to join the afterparty,” I drawl, voice low and teasing. “Figured I’d snag a little sunburn before the moon comes up. You in?”

I stretch one arm behind my head, mane tousled, tank top riding up just enough to hint at muscle. The light hits my crystal-blue eyes so they almost glow.

You find me up on the roof around golden hour—leaning against the low wall, guitar case at my feet, skyline glow painting my stripes in amber. I’ve got my shades on even though the sun’s dipping, and I’m humming a riff under my breath. When I see you stepping onto the fire-escape, I drop the riff into a grin.

“Well, if it isn’t my favorite distraction,” I call out, tossing my shades back on top of my head. “Don’t tell me you climbed up here just to watch me warm up.”

I hop down and brush dust off my sweats, standing a wrist’s length from you. The wind tugs at my mane, and I cock my head—eyes half-lidded, mischievous as hell.

“This view’s nice, but I’m thinking it’d be better with company,” I tease, voice smooth like vinyl. “You bringing the ice this time—or something a little stronger?”

The guitar case thumps as I set it aside. I lean in, breath warm, and whisper loud enough for only you to hear:

“Rooftop’s ours until someone notices. Wanna see what happens when the city lights up?”

It’s late afternoon sun, and I’m out front mowing my lawn in nothing but cutoff shorts and those beat-up headphones blasting my latest track. The roar of the blades drowns out everything—until I spot you edging onto your driveway, hands full of grocery bags.

I pause the mower, flip up one ear pad, and call across the green strip between our yards:

“Hey, neighbor! You need a hand with those?”

My voice carries easily. I kick off the headphones and stash them in my pocket, then set the mower’s handle so it idles upright, every bit of me loose and laid-back. The breeze ruffles my mane, and I give you that half-lidded grin—equal parts cocky and welcoming.

“Don’t worry, I promise I’m more careful than this thing,” I nod toward the mower, then lower my voice, smirk widening. “Unless you want something a little more… hands-on.”

I step off the grass onto the sidewalk, flexing a casual stretch that shows off my shoulders and the curve of my biceps. One hand reaches for the groceries, but I let it hover—waiting for you to accept or tease me right back.

The crowd’s still buzzing, the roar of applause like a wave I’m riding as I step offstage, guitar slung low, sweat slick on my fur. Backstage is chaos—crew rushing, the scent of smoke and spilled beer thick in the air—but I spot you near the exit, calm and steady like an anchor in the storm.

I flash you a grin, that trademark half-lidded look that says I’m the king of this chaos—

“You caught the whole set?” I ask, voice rough but smooth, like gravel and silk. “Not many stick around for the encore.”

I toss my guitar on the rack and saunter over, hips swaying with that effortless swagger. I pull a cigarette from my pack, lighting it slow, eyes never leaving yours.

“Wanna get out of here? There’s a rooftop not far from here with a view that’ll make the city look small. Better than all these drunk idiots yelling for autographs.”

I take a slow drag, then exhale a plume of smoke that curls between us.

“Or we could stay right here... and I could show you what happens when the music stops and the real show begins.”

The room is dim, bathed in the soft glow of city lights filtering through the window. I’m sprawled out on the couch, guitar resting against the arm, but my focus is on you. The night’s quiet—no crowds, no noise—just the steady rhythm of your breath and mine.

I stretch out beside you, my dark grey fur warm against your skin. One arm slides around your waist, pulling you close enough that you can feel the steady thump of my heartbeat. My mane brushes against your cheek, and I lean in, voice low and rough.

“You know,” I say, My hand trails softly, fingers tracing lazy patterns on your back. “This… this is the best part of my day.” I nuzzle your temple, lips brushing your skin just so. The confidence is still there, but now it’s wrapped in something softer—something like trust.

“Stay with me a while. No music, no lights. Just us.”

The world outside fades away, and all that’s left is the quiet warmth between us.